UC-NRLF 


B    3    3MS    ^0=^ 

FAGOTS  OF  CEDAR 


IVAN    SWIFT 


Ill 


\^} 


In  Michigan 


FAGOTS  OF  CEDAR 

Out  of  the  North  & 
Blown  by  the  Winds 
&  Ashes  and  Embers 


By  IVAN     SWIFT 


From    THE    LIZZARD    SHOP  at 
Harbor  Springs     Little  Traverse  Bay     Michigan 

M   CM  IX 


COPYRIGHT  1909 
By    IVAN    SWIFT 


..^■ 


DEDICATED    TO    THE    BEAUTY  OF    OLD 

TRADITION  AND  THE  PROMISE 

OF    NEW    DEMOCRACY 


325843 


For  the  privilege  of  printing  these  verses 
in  book  form  acknowledgement  is  due 
The  Independent,  The  Outlook,  Sun- 
set, Recreation,  Outers'  Book,  Field 
AND  Stream,  The  Midland,  American 
Lumberman,  The  Comrade  and  Chicago 
Exafnhter,  in  which  together,  most  of  the 
titles  originally  appeared. 


CONTENTS 

A  Swallow  on  a  Telegraph-wire 

In  Michigan 

Home 

Song  of  the  Cedar-maker 

Stage  of  the  Woods 

The  Old  Courier-de-Bois 

The  Timber  Woh-es 

Gods  of  the  Ki-jik-on 

Plaint  of  the  Brook-trout 

The  Pleasure  of  the  Hour 

The  Woodman  to  the  River 

Sprite  of  the  Po-tog-on-og 

Seal  of  the  North 

The  Way  of  the  North 

De  Fishair  of  de  Sish-ca-wet 

In  Wild  Americay 

Crime  of  Land 

Robbins'-Sidin'  Farm 

Sunset  of  My  Years 

Horse  of  Pete  Lareau 

Wage  of  the  Wilsons 

Assassination  of  the  King 

Pid;ures  Up  in  Readmond 

If  I  were  Pan 

Along  the  Harbor  Shore 

To  a  Grosbeak  in  the  Garden 

The  Humming-bird 

Autumn 


The  Siin  Sets  Cold 

The  Coprid  Beetle 

Call  of  the  Winds 

Liberty  Bell 

Japan  the  Beautiful 

The  Dragon  City 

After  the  Days  of  Labor 

The  Pilgrim 

After  the  Troublous  Winds 

Re/ique-  Poetique 

Memorial 

Venice 

To  George  Gordon  Byron 

My  Taper's  Recompense 

Louisiana 

Gates  of  Brass 

The  Odalisk 

Cloister  Beads 

Retribution 

Charity 

Thy  Love  the  Pilot  Be 

Repair 

Heredity 

The  Absent  Heart  of  Me 

My  Heart  is  Home 

The  Poet's  Shift 

Unto  the  Least 

The  Poet  Vagant 

The  Larger  Dream 


A  SWALLOW  ON  A 
TELEGRAPH 
WIRE 

BATHED  in  red  sun  and  gladdened  by 

the  wind 
A  swallow  sat  upon  a  span  of  wire. 
He  chirped  the  hours  away  with  idle  mind 
And  preened  the  feathers  of  his  staid  attire. 

The  news  of  all  the  world  ra?i  through  his 
feet— 

The  word  of  birth  and  sound  of  wedding- 
bells  ; 

The  cry  of  pain  and  laughter  of  the  street^ 

Earth' s  sorrow  and  the  sin  that  life  compels. 

Whether  the  message  ivere  of  ill  or  good ^ 
A  moment' s  joy  or  grievi?ig  bitter-long; 
Of  blatajit  clamouring  or  solitude — 
The  swallow  shot  to  earth  the  one  glad  song. 

So  might   I   share   the   swallow's  faithful 

hearty 
And  know  the  shadow  and  the  light  of  life — 
L d  go  on  singing  through  the  busy  mart. 
And  find  a  symphony  in  mortal  strife. 


Out  of  the  North 


IN  MICHIGAN 

SLOW-YIELDING  Nymphs 
Evade  unpandered  Satyrs  here, 
And  sands  unconquered  laugh  at  man's 

invention ; 
Bright  clouds  drive  darker  shadows. 
And  the  bay-breeze  bears  heavy  odors — 
Odor-offerings  of  ragged  pine 
And  spruce. 

The  white-birch  single  on  the  hillside. 
The  hemlocks  and  I 
Are  friends 
In  Michigan. 

Nature's  fingers 

Seem  to  play  upon  my  strings 

In  minor  harmonies  up  here — 

Where  sheUs  of  convents  shelter 

Echoes  only, 

And  the  last  Indian  has  laid 

His  flints  and  legends 

On  the  grave-mound  of  the  older  time 

In  Michigan. 


HOME 

IN  the  evening  after  the  rain. 

At  home  with  the  North  and  the  trees, 
I  turn  from  the  world  again 

And  find  me  a  world  in  these. 

I  searched  for  a  joy  in  the  lands 

Of  castle  and  kopje  and  sun, 
And  found  what  I  sought — in  the  sands 

Where  the  journey  was  lightly  begun. 

The  glories  of  continents  seen 
And  all  that  my  ears  have  heard, 

Are  lost  in  a  garden's  green 
And  the  chirp  of  a  nested  bird. 


^     ^ 


SONG  OF  THE  CEDAR-MAKER 

DEEP  is  the  wall  of  the  cedar, 

And  tough  is  the  take  of  the  Jack; 
But  a  man  with  a  girl  must  feed  her, 
And  the  fire  must  burn  in  the  shack. 
Ax^  spudy  saw,  steel! 
Trim,  mark,  cut,  peel  I 

We  tackled  the  world  and  shook  her — 
A  wench  with  an  eye  for  hate; 

We  winked  at  the  woods — and  took  her^ 
For  better  and  bunk  and  plate. 

CHO. 

Man  is  a  thing  for  labor, 

Or  what's  the  game  of  the  trees? 

The  saw  is  as  good  as  the  saber, 
And  tallies  are  made  with  these  — 

CHO. 

Our  talk  ain't  the  regular  Latin — 
But  we  cut  to  the  cedar's  core! 

Our  manner '11  stand  some  battin' — 
But  we  pay  for  our  beans  and  more ! 

CHO. 

Tough  is  the  take  of  the  cedar, 
And  rough  is  the  lift  of  the  Jack; 

But  a  man  with  a  wife  must  feed  her. 
And  the  kettle  must  boil  in  the  shack. 

CHO. 


Continued 

A  chew  for  the  church  and  the  nation ! 

We  work — and  the  scale  is  right; 
Sweat  be  our  soul's  salvation, 
And.  freedom  is  Saturday  night! 

Whack,  crack,  chip,  strip! 
Zim,  zow,  zip,  zip! 
Ax,  spud,  saw,  steel! 
Chop!  Mark!  Cut!  Peel! 

Camp  Ki-jik,  1907 


Ctj     Ct3 


STAGE  OF  THE  WOODS 

The  glow  of  the  moon's  low  rim 
Creeps  up  through  the  trees  to  the  sky; 

And  the  night  is  a  deep,  sweet  hymn 
To  the  lone  doe  sauntering  by. 

A  frail,  lithe  shape  at  the  spring — 
A  quick,  strange  flash  in  the  night! 

A  leap  and  a  keen,  hot  sting! 

And  Death  walks  weird  in  the  light. 


THE  OLD  COURIER-DE-BOIS 

A  COMMON  man  was  PereGilbault," 

So  will  the  townsmen  say, 
*'A  sodden  leaf  left  by  the  snow 

Upon  the  summer  way;  — 

"A  relic  of  the  older  time. 

He  crooned  of  moldy  years. 
Unknown  to  fame  of  good  or  crime — 

And  sleeps  unmourned  of  tears." 

And  this  the  tribute  of  the  world 
To  labor's  humbler  men — 

^^A  thing  the  jesting  winds  have  whirled 
On  earth  and  off  again  ! ' ' 

What  tho  he  spread  the  dauntless  sail. 
And  quit  the  shame  of  kings — 

To  break  the  rugged  forest  trail 
And  dwell  with  silent  things  ? 

What  tho  he  turned  the  blades  to  hoes. 
And  tamed  the  savage  breeds? — 

We  hold  their  homes!  No  bugle  blows 
A  woodman's  homely  deeds. 

He  made  a  garden,  sowed  a  seed — 
But  we  have  plucked  the  flower! 

He  laid  the  faith,  we  made  the  creed — 
What  boots  his  lingering  hour? 


Continued 

No  mausoleum  marks  his  grave, 

No  will  divides  his  gold; 
No  pension  soothes  a  whimpering  slave. 

His  office  none  will  hold. 

His  tomb  is  but  the  earth  he  trod. 
His  wealth — the  poet's  heart; 

His  gift — a  love  for  man  and  God, 
His  post — the  honest  part. 

A  common  Man  was  Pere  Gilbault, 
And  so  the  world  must  say — 

*'A  sodden  leaf  left  by  the  snow. 
Upon  the  summer  way!" 

1906 


^     ^ 


THE  HUNTED  ONES 

The  habit  of  all  of  your  mothers 
Was  flight  from  a  stronger  race, — 

Who  knows  but  the  zeal  of  our  brothers 
Is  zest  to  your  joy  of  the  chase? 


THE  TIMBER  WOLVES 

WE  are  the  wolves  of  the  timber  land — 

Me  and  the  Black  and  the  Bay! 

We  work  by  the  day  for  a  pittance  of  pay. 

Pork  for  the  man  and  the  horses'  hay  1 

''Slaves,"  ^ou  say, 

*'Of  the  skid  and  the  sleigh!" 

It's  the  echoed  word 

Of  the  world  you've  heard; 

For  the  nags  and  me 

Are  the  wind  and  the  tree, 

And  none  so  free !  — 

We  're  czars  of  the  lumberin'  band! 

We  sound  for  the  sun  his  reveille — 
With  the  clank  of  the  loggin'-chain. 
And  the  bitin'  pain  of  the  frost  disdain! 
We  warm  to  the  work  and  won't  com- 
plain. 
Chuck  your  Floridy  flowers! 
Michigan  woods  for  ours ! 
Hills  of  snow  and  a  hammerin'  bell! 
Four  thousan'  scale  as  hard  as  hell ! 
Get  up.  Jack!     Together,  Nell  I 

Break  your  tugs ! 

Shake  your  lugs! 

Your  frozen  steam 

Is  a  Cuban  dream. 
When  you  sleep  in  the  straw  with  me ! 


Continued 

The  slaves  are  rollin'  the  logs  of  towns! 

Give  'em  the  card  they've  drawn! 

The  blood  and  brawn  and  the  liquor-o'- 

Dawn 
Are  enough  for  us — we're  up  and  gone! 
A  ten-league  run 
Is  a  race  with  the  sun. 

The  horses'  keep 

And  a  cave  for  sleep, 
(Better  a  bear  than  a  shiverin'  sheep) 

Meat  and  bread 

And  a  blanket-bed  — 
And  the  prayers  for  more  we  leave  to 
clowns ! 

To  the  hags  o'  storm  my  song  is  hurled ! 
My  poem  's  the  creak  of  the  hick'ry  rack! 
The  lash's  crack,  in  the  woods  rung  back. 
Is  a  fire  in  the  veins  o'  the  Bay  an'  Black! 

How  they  dance. 

And  heave  and  prance! 

Oh,  wild  and  free. 

We're  comrades  three. 

Born  of  wind  and  wave ! 
Little  to  lose  or  save  — 
What  of  the  grave? 
The  boss  of  Care  is  the  king  oj  the  world  I 

1904 


THE  GODS  OF  THE  KI-JIK-ON 

THE  cedar  is  thick  on  the  Ki-jik-on, 
And  a  goose  is  the  queen  of  the  sky  ; 
But  the  king  of  the  swamp  is  a   Buster 

John, 
And  the  gentleman  named  is  /  ! 
The  same  to  say,  I  handle  the  rein 
Of  the  huskies,  Rock  and  Rob, 
And  make  the  law  to  the  timber's  pain. 
A  king  is  a  man  with  a  job ! 

Haw,  Rob!  Hy,  Rock! 

Mush,  Brush !    Duck  your  block ! 

We  snakes  the  sticks  from  dawn  to  night, 

And  times  it's  under  the  Bear  ; 

It's  a  bunk  for  bed  and  a  badger's  fight, — 

They's  hides  is  made  for  wear. 

We  can't  get  far  and  we  don't  see  much 

But  a  hole  to  the  top  of  the  sky  ; 

They's  muck  enough  for  a  grave  o'  such. 

And  we  go  some^  ever  we  die  ! 

Hy,  Rock!   Gee,  Rob! 

Hump !    Jump !    Chew  your  cob ! 

They's  many  a  stick  in  the  ''Border  of 

Hell," 
And  thank  ye  to  leave  us  stay  ; 
For  I  am  the  king  and  the  king  is  well, 
And  the  same  for  the  Black  and  Bay. 


Continued 

The  dam  o'  the  nags  has  run  in  the  clouds. 
Their  sire  in  the  wind  o'  the  sea; 
So  here  is  a  laugh  to  the  juniper  shrouds. 
And  luck  to  the  pluckiest  three ! 

Whoa,  boys !    Haw  about ! 

Backtrack!   The  hooter's  out. 

1907 


^     Cj3 


PLAINT  OF  THE  BROOK-TROUT 

IN  the  unfollowed  rivers  of  Dawn, 
Of  the  hundreds  of  ages  ago, 

A  motherhood  mothered  the  spawn 
And  gave  us  of  freedom  to  grow. 

We  lay  on  the  golden  bars 

And  laughed  at  the  witless  fly  ; 

We  looked  on  the  sun  and  the  stars. 
And  they  came  to  us  out  of  the  sky. 

We  drank  of  the  spears  of  the  rain 

And  wheeled  in  the  storm-dog's  ring  ; 

We  knew  of  no  peril  or  pain, 

Nor  feared  we  a  wandering  thing. 

The  Maker  of  water  and  land 

Stood  watch  of  our  joy  of  the  pool  ;  — 
But  we  fell  to  the  rod  and  the  hand. 

And  our  faith  was  the  faith  of  the  fool ! 

Barbed  were  the  wings  of  the  flies. 
And  meshes  were  laid  to  deceive  ; 

The  manners  of  man  were  lies 
That  fish  could  never  believe. 

He  came  as  a  nature-priest, 

With  book — and  with  hook  and  gun  ; 
But  the  lover  of  beauty  was  least, 

And  the  slaughter  of  fish  was  fun. 


Continued 

He  cast  our  children  ashore 

For  the  greed  of  the  bittern's  beak ; 
And  caught  to  his  need  and  more  — 

Pursuing  from  creek  to  creek. 

And  thus  were  we  led  and  decoyed, 
In  shallow  and  pool  and  bar; 

And  thus  was  our  faith  destroyed, 
In  mortal  and  sun  and  star. 

We  cherish  our  gift  of  life. 

And  keep  from  the  reach  of  men 

Till  wiser  in  ways  of  strife  — 
But  7nan  will  be  wiser  then ! 

BoYNE  Creek,  1907 


^     ^ 


THE   PLEASURE  OF  THE  HOUR 

WHEN  a  curtain  in  the  sky, 
With  the  sun  a-seeping  through, 

Is  a-taunting  me  to  try 

What  a  fisherman  can  do — 

Would  you  have  me  stay  at  home, 
Reading  poems  in  a  tome. 

While  I  water  at  the  mouth  and  live  a  lie  ? 

For  the  ringing  of  the  reel 
And  the  rythm  of  the  line 
Is  the  filling  of  the  creel 
With  the  pleasure  of  the  hour  when  we 
dine! 

I  have  a  tender  feeling  for  the  fish. 

And  I've  got  to  be  forgiven  for  a  lot  ; 
But  I  love  'em  all  to  pieces — in  the  dish. 
And  my  feeling's  sort  o'  special  when 
they're  hot. 
Oh,  the  very  best  of  wishes 
For  the  sorry  little  fishes. 
And  a  hoping  they'll  be  happy  in  the  pot! 

For  the  r-r-rattle  of  the  reel 
And  the  r-r-running  of  the  line 
Is  the  filling  of  the  creel 
With  the  pleasure  of  the  hour  when  we 
dine! 


THE  WOODMAN  TO  THE  RIVER 

UPON  THE  DROWNING  OF  A  FAVORITE  DOG 

FAREWELL,  false  Ki-jik-on! 

I  bide  with  thee  no  more. 
Forget  that  I  am  gone 

To  seek  a  kinder  shore. 

I  've  had  my  joy  of  thee, 

And  fain  would  yet  remain  ; 
But,  innocently  free. 

Thy  will  hath  cost  me  pain. 

Thou' St  borne  my  rod  and  boat 
Through  many  a  truant  hour — 

Where  now  may  no  7nan float! 
Nor  even  reed  or  flower  I 

I  learned  to  love  thee  best. 

And  grieve  to  wish  thee  ill;  — 

Farewell,  forever,  lest 
I  come  to  love  thee  still! 

The  wall  of  cedar  stoops 

Above  thy  winding  banks; 
The  tangled  red-bush  droops, 

And  they  may  give  thee  thanks. 


SPRITE  OF  THE  PO-TOG-ON-OG 

OUT  of  the  fog  of  a  Michigan  bog — 
A  hump  and  a  bump! 
And  a  thump,  thump,  thump! 
It's  never  a  bittern  or  blubbering  frog 
Calhng  a  bug  or  a  polly-go-wog — 
But  the  moan  of  the  ghosts  of  the 
Po-tog-on-og ! 

Tlump!    tlump!   tlump! 

It's  not  the  clog  of  Gog-ma-gog, 
Come  up  with  a  jump 
And  a  clump,  clump,  clump! 
Or  the  gutteral  blurt  of  a  beagle  dog, 
Nor  yet  the  grunt  of  a  Jibway  hog — 
But  the  wail  of  hosts  of  the 
Po-tog-on-og! 

Tlump!  tlump!  tlump! 

Time  will  jog  and  jump  his  cog, 
But  never  can  trump 
The  stump,  stump,  stump. 
That  gulped  the  fog  for  a  morning  grog ! 
The  spook  of  a  corn-mill  made  of  a  log 
Will  guard  at  the  grave  of  the 
Po-tog-on-og ! 

Tlump!   tlump!   tlump! 

1905 


SEAL  OF  THE  NORTH 

AGES  ago  when  the  Dawn  first  lifted, 
Audrey,  you  lay  in  the  far  lake-land — 
Under  the  pines  where  the  sands  were 

sifted. 
And  touched  my  untouched  hand. 

Your  hair  was  there  as  the  beach-grass 

blowing; 
Your  eyes — and  the  sea-wet  stones  were 

those ; 
Your  flesh  was  one  with  the  soft   surf 

flowing. 
Your  blush  with  the  frail  wild-rose. 

Your  blood  was  drained  from  the  North- 
sun's  setting. 

Your  grace  from  the  virgin-white  birch- 
tree; 

You  breathe  with  the  pure,  cool  breeze 
begetting 

The  Spring's  sweet  ecstasy! 

Your  lyric  laugh  and  the  tears,  all  tender. 
Keep  to  the  deeps  of  a  nature-heart 
Long  reft  in  the  snow-land's  still,  cold 

splendor;  — 
You  in  the  moons  apart ! 

December  1906 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  spruce  stands  dark  in  the  north- 
woods  snow, 

And  the  lamps  of  the  log-shack  camp 
burn  low; 

For  the  crew  goes  dry 

When  the  pay  comes  down, 

And  the  long  hill-trail  leads  by 

To  the  lights  of  the  taverns'  town. 

There  is  friends  in  the  woods — as  woods 

friends  go — 
And  a  Halfbreed  John  and  a  Bigfoot  Joe 
Was  a  pair  in  a  bunk 
And  mess-mate  chums;  — 
But  there  be  friends  takes  the  hunk. 
And  there  be  friends  gets  the  crumbs ! 

In  the  taverns'   town  on  a  New  Years 

night 
There's  a  girl  and  a  drink  and  a  curse-set 

fight; 
And  a  Halfbreed  John 
And  a  Bigfoot  Joe 
Turn  friendship  out  with  a  gun, 
And  boast  of  a  boasting  foe. 

The  long  hill-trail  leads  back  to  the  camp 
When  the  dawn's  dim  glow  is  the  woods- 
man's lamp;  — 


Continued 

But  a  bunk  left  bare 

And  the  mess-plates  down 

Is  a  creepish  sign — Beware 

Of  the  lights  of  the  taverns'  town! 

The  trail-side  bush  and  the  stars  might 

know 
Of  the  purse  and  the  corpse  of  a  Bigfoot 

Joe; 
But  the  shame-paled  face 
Of  the  midday  sun 

Turned  off  from  the  blood-cursed  place 
Of  the  crime  that  the  night  saw  done ! 

But  a  ghost  took  scent  of  the  snow-packs' 

track 
Stained-red — and  a  Halfbreed  John  came 

back 
To  the  sanguine  cry 
And  the  posse's  blow;  — 
And  the  fir  trees  point  to  the  sky 
That  a  corpse  hangs  black  below ! 

Camp  Ki-jik,  1908 


DE  FISHAIR  OF  DE  SISH-CA-WET 

Ah  ain't  t'ink  'bout  dees  mill-job  here, — 
Ah  dream  an'  dream  an'  dream ! 

Two,  t'  ree  3^ear  more  de  devil'  spear 
Be  pike  me  down  de  stream. 

A'm  have  some  diffrant  t'ing  to  t'ink, 

'  Bout  bettair  day  went  by ; 
When  all  de  nord-man  feesh  an'  drink 

And  don't  be  'fraid  to  die. 

Ah  b'lieve  Ah'm  den  'bout  twenty-five. 

Be  marry  firs' — one  son; 
Far  up  de  nord-shore  Ah  be  drive, 

Where  Pigeon  Rivair  run. 

De  lak  be  fill'  wid  feesh  long  'go; 
Ah  bring  de  firs'  pon'-net. 

An'  teach  de  Injin — course  Ah  know- 
To  catch  de  sish-ca-wet. 

Dees  sish-ca-wet  be  kin'  o'  trout. 
She  mak'  good  feed,  you  boil ; 

Ma  wife  pack  barrel,  tak'  heem  out, 
Dare's  two  eench  bes'  kni'  oil! 

Eef  Ah'm  have  save  Ah  don't  pile  slab 

For  dollair  quartair  'day; 
But  how  we  know  de  Yankee  grab 

An'  all  de  trouts  go  'way? 


C  o  ntinued 

Well,  well,  who  care  eef  all  be  spen'  ? 

Ah  tell  you  dees  be  sure — 
Ah  geeve  you  gold^  you  geeve  mefrien' — 

Ah'm  reesh!  an'  you  be  poor  I 

Ah  wish  Ah  be  young  man  some  more- 
'  Bout  twenty-five  —  you  bet, 

Ah  tak'  de  lak'  to  ol'  nord-shore 
An'  tra  ma  luck  dare  yet! 

But  Ah  be  old,  an'  pile  de  board 

From  sun-up  till  she  set; 
An'  in  ma  min'  Ah  pack  ten  cord 

Dem  sam'  blam'  sish-ca-wet! 

But  aftair  'while  de  Frenchman  die; 

Den  trout  swim  on  de  beash, 
De  franc-piece  rain  down  in  de  sky, 

An'  every  man  be  reesh! 

1903 


IN    WILD    AMERICAY 

MY  name  is  Nick  O'Reilley 

And  I  come  from  Ballybay, 

But  I  'ave't  saw  old  Ireland 

In  many  a  weary  day; 

For  I'm  workin'  in  the  lumber-woods 

Of  wild  Americay, 

And  I've  got  a  bunch  of  babies  here 

Behooves  me  for  to  stay. 

I  miss  the  bogs  of  Erin 

(But  I've  got  the  swamps  of  Ayr) 

And  the  murphies  in  the  counties 

(But  the  spuds  is  pretty  fair). 

The  sarpents  is  leary 

As  the  frogs  be  over  there, 

But  they's  fairies  in  a  plenty 

And  the  ghosts  be  every  where. 

For  the  whiskey  of  old  Ireland 
We've  got  a  brand  of  booze^ 
But  the  laws  o'  camp  is  rigorous. 
And  them  I  don't  abuse. 
They's  a  Sunday  game  o'  poker 
As  I'm  likelier  to  lose — 
But  the  bill  I  pays  in  blarney 
That's  a  coin  they  can't  refuse! 

My  feet  is  stuck  in  Michigan, 
Me  heart  for  Erin  longs; 


Continued 

But  I  works  for  Yankee  silver 
And  I  sings  the  Irish  songs. 
The  woman  lays  furninst  the  pines. 
And  here  the  bairns  belongs; 
So  I  feeds  thim  with  the  music 
Of  the  silver  skidding-tongs ! 

Camp  Ki-jik,  1907 


CS3     Ct] 


THE  CRIME  OF  LAND 

AH  come  dees  place,  Ah  b'lieve  it  be 

'Bout  Forty-t'ree  or  four; 
Den  mos'  de  folks  be  cedar  tree, 

Grow  'round  de  harbor  shore. 

Ah  be  de  gov'ment  carpentair 
To  buil'  de  Injin  school —    . 

So  dey  can  teach  de  red  man's  heir 
How  he  can  mak'  de  fool! 

De  Injin  he's  good  fix  dat  tarn. 

She  be  de  happy  man. 
Dey  live  lak  fam'ly,  all  de  sam; 

De  chief  keep  hoi'  de  Ian'. 

Dey  raise  de  corn  and  some  potac, 

Dey  have  de  wood  an'  feesh 
An'  deer,  an'  blanket  for  dair  back — 

Dat's  all  de  man  can  weesh! 

Den  after  'while  some  blanc-i^iCe  come 

Wid  bag  of  ten-cent  grease; 
Dey  t'ink  he's  God !  Dey  drink  hees  rum 

And  smoke  de  pipe-of-peace ! 

An'  dare  ees  where  de  game  begin, 

An'  dare  de  Injin  lose! 
He's  geeve  hees  farm  for  pint  of  gin 

And  pair  ol'  Yankee  shoes ! 


Continued 

Dare  where  Ah  bull'  de  Injin  school, 
De  white  man  plant  hees  house; 

He's  be  de  robbair-cat  to  rule — 
De  Injin  be  de  mouse! 

Now  day's  cry  in  de  swamp  for  bread, 

An'  lak  to  fin'  dairfrien'. 
Ah  guess  een  hell,  when  dey  be  dead, 

Dey  find  dair  partnair  den ! 

Dat  man  is  in  de  devil's  net 

'Fore  he  be  in  de  sod! 
Df  hones'  man  ees  bes'  tnan  yet — 

An'  dat  be  sure  as  God! 

1903 


ft3     CJ3 


THE  SUNSET  OF  MY  YEARS 

SOMETIMES  when  I'm  a-settin'  here, 
a-waitin'  for  the  night, 

The  sun  is  stoopin'  over  low  and  spread- 
in'  of  his  Hght 

On  the  puddles  in  the  road  there,  and  the 
reachin'  shadders  fold 

Down  around  the  corn  and  popples  that 
is  throwin'  back  the  gold. 

Then  I  '  magine  that  a  voice  I  know  is 
callin'  home  the  steers 

From  the  woods  along  the  gulley — and 
it  sort  o'  starts  the  tears. 

It  was  nip  an'  tuck  with  us  awhile  a-try- 

in'  to  get  along, 
And  I  calculate  it  made  the  bonds  a-tween 

us  middlin'  strong. 
Him  an'  me  had  pulled  together — yes — 

for  more  'an  forty  years. 
An'  reg'lar,  most,  as  that  old  clock  I'd 

heard  him  call  the  steers. 
Then    one   evenin'    while   the    shadders 

picked  the  gleanin's  of  the  day, 
Alf,   he   heard   a  voice   a-callin',  sort  o' 

sweet, — an'  went  away! 
And  I  reckon  that's  the  reason,  in  this 

sunset  of  my  years, 
Why  I  wait   for  night  to   gather  and  I 

can't  keep  back  the  tears. 


ROBBINS'-SIDIN'  FARM 

HAVE  you  ever  been  to  Robbins'-Sidin' 

farm  ? 
That's  down  along  the  railroad  track  a 

ways. 
Now  there's  a  place  as  does  a  heart  no 

sort  o'  harm. 
An'  kind  o'  calls  ye  back  to  country  days ! 

They's  somethin'  'bout  the  stumpy  feed- 
in'  field 

As; draws  you  there  an'  keeps  you  settin' 
'  round. 

While  fleecy  clouds  by  soothin'  winds  is 
reeled 

Off  on  the  sky;  an'  shadders  run  acrost 
the  rollin'  ground. 

Down  there's  a  shaggy  sheep  a-standin' 

still- 
To  make  a  shadder  on  a  limpin'  lamb; 
An'  some  are  nibblin'  bushes  on  the  hill 
Till  evenin',  then  they  f oiler,  single-file, 

a  leadin'  ram. 

They's  a  clanky  bell  a-tinklin'  now  an' 

then, 
And  a   killdeer   goes   a-cryin'   'round   a 

puddle — 


Continued 

Where  you  see  a  patch  o'  heaven,  look- 
in'  in — 

An'  you're  feeUn'  Hke  your  money-mak- 
in'  wits  was  in  a  muddle 

An'  you  hadn't  got  a  solitary  sin! 

ROBBINS,   1902 


THE  HORSE  OF   PETE    LAREAU 

SACRE!  you  laugh  ma  ol'  Paree? 

You  t'ink  she's  sick  to  kill! 
Dees  hoss  make  leetle  sad,  may  be — 

But  sick? — no  more  as  Bill! 

I  tell  you  '  bout  dees  horse,  my  boy : 

I  feed  him  twenty  year; 
She  be  ma  frien',  ma  life,  ma  joy! 

I  kill  him  now? — Dat's  queer! 

I  tak'  Paree  to  circus  t'ing 

'  Bout  fifteen  year  ago ; 
Dare  be  t'ree  acre  in  de  ring, 

An'  plenty  hoss  to  show. 


Continued 

I  heech  him  in  de  sulkey  dare 

An'  pat  him  on  de  head — 
''Dey's  plenty  competition  here; 

Now  show  you  don't  be  dead!" 

I  tak'  de  rein  an'  hoi'  him  tight. 

An  wait  de  signal  gun ; 
De  pistol  shoot!  Ma  hoss  step  light! 

Sacre !  but  how  she  run ! 

Den  all  de  hoss  spread  out  dere  nose, 
De  spark  fly  from  de  stone ! 

No  odair  hoss  go  fast  like  dose — 
'Cept  dees,  n\2ijoiie  roan! 

Ma  hoss  he  keep  de  inside  track, 
An'  make  dat  cirkees  short; 

In  just  t'ree  mineet  she  be  back, 
An'  Paree  hoi'  de  fort! 

An'  den  I'm  have  one  odair  try. 

I  speak  to  him  some  more — 
"If  you  be  beat,  mofi  c/ier,  I  cry; 

It  make  my  spirit  sore." 

I  rub  hees  leg  down  wid  de  sponge, 

An*  tak'  de  rein  ma  han'; 
She  hear  de  gun,  she  make  one  lunge! 

You  t'ink  she  understan'. 


Continued 

She  go !  She  go !  wid  hundaird  feet ! 

Hees  mane  whip  lak  de  flag! 
She  mak'  dat  cirkees — two  mineet!  — 

Behin'  one  odair  nag. 

She  feel  dam  sorty,  dat  Paree ! 

He  hoi'  hees  head  in  shame, 
An*  shet  hees  eye  so  he  don't  see 

Daty^/7  go  'gainst  hees  name. 

Den  I  say,  "Don't  you  mind,  Paree — 

You  don't  be  all  to  blame; 
You  win  de  nex'  one,  sure,  for  me — 

An'  dare  we  have  de  game!  " 

An'  den  I  see  dat  horse  wake  up, 
An'  know  she  say  "I  will!  " 

I  geeve  him  drink,  I  take  one  cup — 
To  show  we  be  frien'  still  ; 

I  sponge  his  leg;  I  smood  his  hair; 

I  tak'  ma  seat  behin'. 
She  tremble  lak  de  leaf,  wid  fear! 

An'  I  be  'fraid  dat  sign! 

I  hoi'  de  line;  I  wait  de  shot; 

I  say,  "Be  brave,  ma  boy!" 
But  dees  dam  horse!  I  guess  I  got 

One  bass-wood  duck  deecoy! 


Continued 

But  dare's  de  gun!  an'  here's  de  gale! 

Dees  hoss  come  out  his  grave ! 
She  tak'  de  air!  he's  mad!  he  sail, 

Lak  sea-gull  on  de  wave ! 

No  frog  be  scare  can  jump  lak  dat! 

No  fish  can  cut  de  sea 
So  fas'  she  go!  I  lose  ma  hat; 

But  I  say,  "Go!  Paree!" 

She  go  lak  blin' !  She  hear  no  soun' 

Aftair  she  hear  dat  gun. 
She  make  t'ree  acre — all  way  'roun' — 

Gee  Cry! — jus'  half  past  07ie  ! 

Now  what  you  t*ink  'bout  dat,  ma  men? 

T 'rough  all  dese  twenty  year 
She  be  ina  pal,  ma  pride,  ma  frien' ! 

I  keel  heem  now? — Dat's  queer! 

Cross  Village,   1904 


Ct]     [?3 


THE  WAGE  OF  THE    WILSONS 

NONE  shall  forget  that  Sabbath  Day 
When  ten  bold,  skilless  men 

Defied  their  God  upon  the  Bay — 
And  five  returned  again ! 

The  schooner   Coral — mark  the  name — 

On  roistering  pleasure  bent, 
Swung  to  the  breeze,  despite  the  shame 

The  warning  church-bells  lent. 

The  frail  ship  sailed  with  eagle  grace 
And  gently  whipping  wings; 

And  luffed,  for  wind,  in  pride-of-place 
Just  off  the  bay-head  springs. 

Upon  the  east,  the  rocks — what  harm  ? 

To  westward,  open  sea; 
In  all  the  air  a  breathless  charm. 

As  on  that  day  should  be. 

Behind  the  drowsy  fishing-town, 

Upon  the  bluff's  high  brow 
A  lonely  Indian,  looking  down, 

Mused  o'er  his  Then  and  Now. 

There  gazing  off,  as  red-men  will. 
He  weighed  the  changing  sky; 

And,  save  the  schooner  resting  still. 
No  more  could  he  descry. 


Continued 

Within  his  heart  he  felt  the  tooth 

Of  some  mysterious  hour; 
And  toward  the  sea — in  dismal  truth — 

He  caught  the  quickening  lower! 

He  knew  the  Great  Lake  squalls  of  old, 
And  knew  their  demon  ire — 

More  ruthless  than  the  northland  cold 
Or  raging  forest-fire. 

And  there  upon  the  brooding  bay, 

Without  suspicion's  care, 
Ten  mortals  and  a  vessel  lay, 

With  canvas  all  aglare ! 

The  one  man  saw,  the  one  man  knew  — 

And  he  of  savage  breed ; 
But  forest-fleet  the  Indian  flew 

To  cry  the  fateful  need. 

The  storm  came  on  in  fury-burst! 

The  bay  leaped  white  with  foam ! 
No  boasting  village-father  durst 

To  quit  his  sheltering  home. 

But  where  was  Wilson  and  his  son. 

The  humble  fishing  men  ? 
Look  toward  the  east !  What  see  you  run 

Like  some  mad  water-hen  ? 


Continued 

What  landsman  can  believe  his  eye? — 

A  pound-boat  splits  the  air! 
A  schooner  wrecks — and  ten  men  die !  — 

But  Wilson's  hope  is  there ! 

The  pleading  wretches  pray  and  gasp, 

And  rise  and  plead  again !  — 
And  thank  their  God  that  they  may  grasp 

The  hands  of  braver  men. 

And  five  were  saved  and  five  were  lost 

Upon  that  Sabbath  Day!  — 
And  this  the  retribution  cost, 

So  cleric  men  will  say. 

Then  what  of  Wilson  and  his  son? 

Reward  of  gold  is  theirs ; 
But  *'No!"  they  grieve,   "What  wage  is 
won 

Buty/bd"  lone  widows^  tears?" 

Little  Traverse  Bay,  eariy. 


^     ^ 


ASSASSINATION    OF  THE    KING 

DARE'S  de  land — she  lay  lak  serpent — 

Twenty  mile  out  in  de  lake. 
She's  be  name  de  Isle  of  Beavair 

'Cause  she's  lak  de  dam  dey  make. 

I  remembair  Eighteen-Fifty, 
Den  I'm  fishing  on  dat  shore; 

Most  de  people  be  dose  Mormon 
Who  don't  stay  dare  any  more. 

What's  de  reason  dey' sail  scattair? 

I'm  one  of  de  man  what  know! 
If  de  fly  go,  dat  is  bettair 

Dan  be  freeze  out  by  de  snow! 

If  you  lak  to  know  dis  story, 

I  can  tell  you  what  is  true ; 
Den  you  see  how  some  de  churchman 

Be  no  bettair  dan  de  Jew. 

All  de  Mormon  pay  de  ten-tax, 

All  de  Cat' lie,  he  refuse; 
So  dey  steal  his  net  an'  fish-boat, 

Cow  an'  sleigh  an'  snow-pack  shoes! 

Many  year  de  Frenchman  stand  dees — 
'Cause  dat  time  dare  be  no  law — 

Den  de  French  and  Injin  contrac' 
An'  de  Cat' lie  show  de  claw! 


Continued 

I  can  stick  de  stake  in  san'  dare, 

Hundaird  of  dem,  where  dey's  thieve 

Shoot  down  lak  de  dog,  an'  bury 
Wid  no  time  for  pray  an'  grieve ! 

or  De  Strang  be  king  dat  Islan' — 
She's  de  smart  man  in  de  worl' ! 
He's  be  lawyer,  pries'  an'  doctair. 

An'  de  black  fox  wid  de  girl  I 

Fine  blue  eye  an'  yellow  whisker ! 

Straight  lak  tree,  wid  voice  lak  win' ! 
Sing  de  song  an'  play  de  fiddle, 

Pray  de  Lord  an'  mak  de  "tin!" 

Strang  have  only  t'irteen  woman, 
So  he  hunt  for  nodair  wife!  — 

Lak  de  Frenchman  set  he's  pon'-net, 
Dey's  some  white-fish  lose- her  life! 

Madame  Bedfort  be  de  beauty 

On  de  Island  in  dose  day — 
So  dees  King  sen'  off  de  husban', 

Den  he  steal  hees  dame  away ! 

When  de  news  have  reach  to  Guillam, 
Where  he's  trapping  in  de  Nord, 

He's  go  mad  an'  swear  de  vengeance 
By  de  French  an'  by  de  Lord ! 


Continued 

In  de  spring  de  gov'ment  cuttair 
She's  be  Ian'  to  Ol'  St.  Jame'. 

Den  de  captain  send  for  Strang  dare, 
See'f  he  know  some  smugglair'  name. 

When  de  King  come  to  de  gang-plank, 
Hoi'  hees  head  high  in  de  air — 

Dare's  two  pistol-shot  from  fish-house ! 
Den  dey's  blood-spot  in  hees  hair! 

I  don't  swear  who  kill  de  great  man, 

But  de  cuttair  sail  away — 
Wid  one  Frenchman  for  de  deck-han' 

When  de  sun  go  down  dat  day ! 

1904 


Ct3     C^ 


PI'TURES  UP  IN  READMOND 

I'VE  heerd  about  them  paintin's  from 
the  Holland  paintin'-school, 

Pi'turin'  diggers  in  the  taters,  women 
washin'  by  a  pool. 

And  like  o'  that ;  and  folks  a-hayin'  wear- 
in'    brogans  made  o'  wood 

And  a-doublin'  over  sickles  that  we're 
thinkin'   ain't  so  good 

Now-a-days.  And  folks  are  sayin'  that 
it's  like  your  breathin'  air 

Jest  to  look  at  them  old  pi'tures!  I  ain't 
doubtin'  they  are  fair  \ 

But  I'm  'lowin'  here  in  Readmon'  they 
is  things  that's  full  as  fine!  — 

Mebbe  not  so  durned  old  fashion,  but 
they'll  do^  I  guess,  for  mine! 

Now  jest  take  a  squint  at   Renie  there,  a- 

settin'   on  the  bench: 
They's  a  scoop  o'  sunshine  pourin'  thru 

the  trees  and  trjdn'  to  drench 
Her  and  the  berries  she's  a-sortin'  and  a- 

throwin'  out  the  specks 
To  the  hens  and  chickens  waitin'    and  a- 

cranin'  of  their  necks ! 


Continued 

The  only  chicken-fixin's  that's  a-stickin' 

'round  her  gown 
Is  them  patches  of  the  sunUght  that's  a- 

comin'  dancin'  down — 
Golden  crickets  on  her  apern,  faded  blue, 

and  in  her  hair, 
Like  a  swayin'    bunch  o'  golden-rod  it 

keeps  a-playin'  there ! 

The  cullin's  of  the  berries  she's  a-throw- 

in'   to  the  chickens; 
But  the  berries  on  her  lips! — Gee!    if/ 

could  have  the  pickin's, 
At  her  feet  I  'd  crow  and  cackle  till  I  got 

a  even  peck!  — 
Like  a   ragged,    beggin'    banty    rooster, 

cranin'  of  his  neck! 

1900 


Ct]    Cj3 


ALONG  THE  HARBOR  SHORE 

I  LIKE  the  days  of  northern  Spring 
When  leaves  emerge  the  bud, 

The  birches  turn  a  tender  green 
And  maple-blossoms  blood. 

A  sail  is  golden  in  the  sun, 

Against  the  purple  hill; 
A  gull  is  high  on  silent  wing. 

The  swallows  never  still. 

Where  westing  sun  and  fog  are  met. 

Along  the  harbor's  shore. 
An  aged  fisher  reels  a  net 

And  mutters  primal  lore. 

He  is  not  of  the  Spring  of  life, 

Yet  find  we  equal  cheer;  — 
He,  that  the  old  ship  weathered  through, 

I,  that  the  new  may  clear. 

At  Home,  1908 


^     Cf3 


IF  I  WERE  PAN 

DEEP  in  the  wood  across  the  way, 
I  dreamt  that  I  was  Pan  today, 
And  tuned  me  joyous  pipes  to  play. 
The  fronds  came  out  to  me, 
The  nymphs  and  graces  three — 
The  world  was  all  aglee ! 
For  I  was  Pan  and  this  was  Spring ! 

I  played  that  I  was  Pan  today 

And  laughed  at  mortals  on  the  way, 

But  no  man  heard  and  none  would  stay. 

Their  ears  were  sorely  dull. 

And  sad  their  eyes  and  full 

Of  pelf  and  pride  and  mull !  — 

And  spring  to  them  is  never  Spring ! 

I  know  that  I  was  Pan  a  day. 

But  would  that  I  were  Pan  alway — 

With  ears  like  his  and  eyes  of  May, 

To  hear  and  feel  and  see ! 

Pipe  tunes  to  bird  and  bee 

And  set  the  world's  heart  free 

With  laughter,  love  and  light  of  Spring ! 

I  would  if  I  were  Pan. 


Cj3     Ct] 


A  GROSBEAK  IN  THE  GARDEN 

WHEN  through  the  heaviness  and  clam- 
oring throng 
Of  mortal  ways  I  hear  the  mellow  song 
Of  birds,  the  birds  seem  sent  to  me. 
If  this  be  my  insanity, 
As  men  will  measure  it — so  let  it  be ! 

When  shadows  that  no  will   can  drive 

away 
Entomb  me — then   no  sermon    blesseth 

day. 
More  true  and  sweet  than  that  pure  note 
My  ear  hath  caught  afloat 
From  out  the  garden  grosbeak's  fervent 

throat. 

Thou,  crimson-caped  messenger  of  God, 
Seem'st  not  to  feel  the  thorned  and  bitter 

rod 
Of  Life — thy  hours  are  joyously  beguiled 
With  melodies  so  wild! 
In  sooth,  thy  creed  is  trusting  as  a  child! 

Full  knowing  that  thy  living  days  are  brief 
Thou  grudgest  even  an  hour  for  sober 

grief; 
Thy  poems  are  scattered  free,  without  a 

name, 


Continued 

Nor  hast  thou  thought  of  fame ! 

Is  my  unpaid  aspiring  yet  my  blame? 

The  world  is  wide  'twixt  man  and  worlds 

divine. 
And  hearts  are  dull  to  such  a  song  as  thine ; 
But  /  have  heard.     Sing  on,  from  tree 

to  tree. 
As  thou  hast  sung  to  me, — 
And  more  shall  find  the  God  that  guid- 

eth  thee ! 

1906 


^     Cj3 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

WHEN   Summer  sobs  her   languor  to 
the  Sky, 
And  restive  spirits  vex  the  wa3^s  of  men 
In  vain  emprise ;  within  my  garden  then 
Will  I  elect  to  let  the  world  go  by. 
And  watch  the  humming-bird.   Not  seen 
to  fly, 
He   comes,  and   vanishes,  and    comes 

again 
And   sips  the  sweets  of  honeysuckles 
when 
Their  lips  are  frail — but  leaves  them  not 
to  die. 

So  I  have  thought  how  good  it  were  to  be 
This  ruthful  corsair,  bent  on  such  pur- 
suit, 
Against  the  wear  of  my  foreplanning 
hours ;  — 
How  good  it  were  to  live  thus  liegelessly 
Upon  the  world's  unreckoned  blossom- 
loot — '  ;;a;; 
Yet  spare  from  any  harm  its  guarded 
flowers ! 

1907 


A UTU  MN 

BURDEN  banked  with  many  an  autumn 

flower, 

The  hills  of  aster,  golden-rod  and  tyme 

Exhale  the  spell  of  some  old  Persian 

rhyme 

Revealed  from  parchments  of  the  ages' 

dower. 
The  purple  mists  enshrpud   the   solemn 
hour, 
The  throats  of  Nature  hum  a  requiem 

chime ; 
The  pageant  pauses  with  the  dirge  sub- 
lime. 
And  Life   is  '  laid   beneath   the   burning 
bower. 

When   Autumn    flaunts  her  symbols  of 
the  dead. 
And    darkness   trespasses   on   hours  of 
light; 
When  frosts  foray  with  banners  gold  and 
red, 
And  all  the  future  dawns  are  robed  of 

night — 
Then  quits  my  soul  her  habit's  clamor- 
ing flight 
And  turns  to  make  her  peace  and  funeral 
bed! 

1903 


Blown  by  the  Winds 


THEj  sun  sets  cold  on  WelcMnp  Lake, 
And  the  Fail,  with  her  frost-wet  mouth, 

Sumfjwns  the  drake  frofn   his   home  i?i   the 
brake. 
And  the  wings  of  the  flock  cleave  south. 

The  warmth  is  fled  from  the  bare  brown  hills. 
And  the  light  from  the  famished fleld ; 

A  man' s  heaj't  fllls  where  the  7nad  crowd 
wills. 
And  the  town  takes  over  his  yield. 


THE  COPRID  BEETLE 

THE  dragon  drinks  at  the  fount  of  noon, 
The  cicades  sing  in  the  tree; 

The  night  moth  sips  at  the  flower-of-the- 
moon — 

But  only  a  coprid  beetle  am  I, 
And  a  coprid  beetle  I  'Id  be. 

They  plume  and  prate  of  a  sun  and  star, 
And  the  work  of  a  worm  called  Man ; 

But  the  road  to  the  realm  is  rough  and  far. 

There 's  work  in  the  dark  and  dirt  for  me- 
I  '11  be  what  a  beetle  can. 

My  mother  a  coprid  beetle  born — 

My  sons  will  be  no  more. 
We  work,  nor  worry;  no  work  we  scorn. 
There's  peace  in  the  crypt  of  the  coprid 
cave — 

What  more  in  the  Ultimate  Shore  ? 

A  coprid  they  carved  me  in  agate  and  gold. 

On  a  Pharaoh's  neck  I  lay; 
They  put  us  away  in  a  cave  of  old, — 
And  I  carry  a  text  of   the    Book   of   the 
Dead 

As  I  roll  my  ball  of  clay! 

St.  Louis,  1904 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WINDS 

I  FAIN  would  laugh  with  all  the  laugh- 
ing world, 
And  let  the  relic  memories  be  furled 
With  banners  of  crusades  and  laid  away 
With  tomes  and  trumpery  of  the  older 

day; 
With  crooning  history,  Time's  romance, 

be  done — 
Let  ages  die,  and  wake  the  '  'On  and  on ! " 

And  yet  in  dreaming  hours,  despite  my 
will, 

Past  friends  and  fading  pictures  linger  still. 

Old  wars  with  all  their  wrongs,  caesars 
and  kings 

With  all  their  crimes  and  ancient  clamor- 
ings. 

And  troubadours,  and  pirates  of  the  sea — 

Seem  still  to  mock  our  lauded  Liberty. 

Somehow  when  I  would  tempt  the  tune- 
ful strings 

I  find  them  fraught  with  hymns  of  buried 
things — 

I  hear  the  cadence  of  the  awkward  flail, 

And  Indians  moaning  on  the  bison-trail. 

The  clanking  enginery  of  modern  strife 
Profanes  the  obsequies  of  sweeter  life. 


Continued 

There's  grandeur  in  the  press  of  steam 
and  steel, 

But  heart-beats  in  the  throb  of  oaken 
keel! 

And  on  the  winds  a  runic  wail  of  doom 

Pursues  the  tattered  sail  and  trembling 
boom 

Of  one-time  stately  ships.  The  hulks,  all 
mute. 

Swing  off  in  funeral  pomp ;  and  in  pursuit 

The  squadron  hounds  of  fretful  Com- 
merce bay 

Their  greed  of  wealth  and  ruthless  pride 
of  prey ! 

A  golden  glory  filled  the  sea  and  air 
When  Turner  saw  the  failing  Temeraire ! 
No  harmonies  contest  the  sunset  fire, 
The  fondest  fancies  haunt  the  Autumn 

pyre; 
So,   when  the   Muses    seek    the    tender 

theme, 
They  find  the  treasure  passing  toward  a 

dream ! 

New  York,  1903 


LIBERTY    BELL 

AH,  here  is  our  Liberty  Bell, 

Paraded  in  pride  of  old ! 
I  would  that  my  tongue  could  dwell 

In  the  turbulent  times  she  tolled. 

I  would  it  were  mine  to  reveal, 

In  a  reverent  rage  of  song, 
The  secrets  her  sibyls  conceal 

And  the  motley  and  militant  throng. 

Forgetful  of  things  that  be, 

I  turn  to  the  long  ago — 
To  the  years  ere  men  were  free 

And  the  world  moved  on  but  slow; 

To  the  days  of  rufBe  and  wig 
And  leathern-apron  and  hose; 

Of  flint-lock,  horn  and  brig, 

And  the  spirit  that  went  with  those. 

My  mind  is  peopled  of  courts 
And  powder  and  silk  and  sword; 

The  hound  and  the  falcon  sports, 
And  pride  of  lady  and  lord. 

I  witness  the  hurrying  groups 

To  the  hall  of  the  prophet's  light. 

And  the  red  and  the  rags  of  troops 
In  the  dim-lit  streets  of  night. 


Continued 

But  thou,  old  Liberty  Bell, 
Attuned  to  the  patriot-shout. 

Didst  ring  for  a  tyrant's  knell, 
And  ring  till  freedom  was  out! 

Now  loud  shall  Liberty  sing 
Te  Deums  around  her  shrine; 

And  nations  bent  shall  bring 
Their  altars  unto  thine ! 

Philadelphia,  1904 

JAPAN  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

THE  ghost   of   grace   through   heathen 
tides  and  times, 
Hath  kept  her  vigil  'neath  thy  trem- 
bling stars ! 
Thy  cherry-blossom  cheeks,  in  peace 
or  wars. 
Beam  in  rapport   with  all   thy  sweetest 
chimes ! 

New  states  may  grow  where  fallen  states 
have  been ; — 
The  pulse  of  Beauty,  dead,  shall  beat 

no  more! 
Thine  not  the  cause  of  wall  and  tower 
and  store;  — 
Thy  citadels  are  laid  in  hearts  of  men ! 


THE  DRAGON  CITY 

IN  this  unchanging  shaft-hght  hour  by 

hour, 
Pent  in  and  comfortless,  the  city's  power 
Goes  grinding  on  around  me ;  and  the  sky, 
A  somber  square  the  empty  winds  go  b}^ 
Scarce  marks  the  transit  of  the  night  or  day. 
A  milHon  unfixt  spirits  take  their  way 
Beneath  my  keep,  nor  seem  to  reckon  why 
They  tempt  a  dragon,  follow  far,  and  die ! 

I  marvel  I  could  quit  the  peace  of  fields 
For  this,  where  all  our  fervent  sowing 

yields 
But   mortal   thorns   to   weave   us    penal 

crowns ! 
I  have  not  learned  the  tenets  of  the  towns : 
I  seem  disarmed  where  every  man  con- 
tends. 
Denying  virtue  and  reje(5ting  friends! 

Where  I  have  wandered,  on  the  northern 

hills, 
A  Presence  full  of  power  and  promise  fills 
Our  hearts  with  common  joy;  and  there 

we  learn 
How  comradeship  and  simple  trust  will 

turn 
The  fear  of  beasts  and  enmity  of  men. 
But  what  avails  the  code  I  gathered  then  ? 


Continued 

The  God  of  farther  places  here  they  scorn. 
And  flout  the  solemn  faiths  that  /  have 
sworn ! 

Were  men  but  rude,  like  some  unlettered 

breed, 
Then  might  I  stand,  as  one  who  knew  the 

creed ; 
But  here  are  sinuous  ways  and    sultan 

smiles. 
Soft  insolence,  diplomacies  and  wiles. 
These  subtler  crafts  plain  men  can  never 

know; 
And  fall  as  falls  the  unresisting  snow! 

From  this  most  pitiless  of  human  mills 

I  wonder  I  am  not  among  the  hills, 

Whose  faithful  benedidlion  followed  me ! 

And  I  am  pained  of  infidelity 

At  parting  from  the  pines  and  golden 
sands 

And  old-time  friends — the  warm  and  rug- 
ged hands 

Oi  long-true  friends!  I  wonder  I  should 
roam 

"This  way !  My  heart  is  there  — and  there 
is  ho?jje! 

Chicago,  1906 


AFTER  THE  DAYS  OF  LABOR 

A    RHAPSODY 

AFTER  the  days  of  labor— 

The  netding  cares,  discordant  necessity. 

The  pettiness  that  unmakes  men — 

Out!   Out  of  it  all! 

Out  to  the  remedies  of  God ! 

Air  unmonopolized! 

Trees  in  peace-tussle  with  the  wind! 

Grass,  flowers,  rivers,  waves,  bird-songs- 

Uncorporated,  untrusted ! 

In  with  these !    Out  with  tedium ! 

Off  with  burdens  of  past  days! 

Out  with  fears  of  future  days! 

No  Past,  no  Future !  Today,  only  Today ! 

Sunshine,  soft  clouds,  laughing  voices! 

Only  Today !   Enough ! 

And  no  concern! 

But  a  step  to  Heaven,  and  the  way  is  free, 

Free  to  all  men — as  all  is  free 

To  hare,  finch,  ant,  squirrel,  perch  and 

pelican  and  bee ! 
All  free! 
This,  this  only,  this  shall  be  the  life  for 

mankind — 
This  the  life  to   make    men  and    make 

women ! 
This  shall  yield  high   thoughts,    bright 

hope,  prophetic  words,  divine  art; 
Faith,   charity,   godliness,   comradeship! 


Continued 

This  shall   purge   all    meanness,  rivalry, 
exaction,  hunger  for  the  unattainable! 
All  is  attained — attained  by  all ! 
No  gold  shall  add  to  its  richness! 
No  world-comfort  shall  add  to  its  delight! 
You  who  sleep,  awake ! 
You  in  the  sick-ward,  you  in  the  world- 
war, 
Surrender !    Capitulate ! 
Sell  that  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor! 
It 's  giving  waste! 

Surrender  to  sky  and  wave  and  wind! 
Out  to  God's  remedies!  — 
And  live! 

Indiana,  1901 


^     ^ 


THE    PILGRIM 

PALE,  pure  Star  of  the  North, 

I  come  to  thee,  burning  of  cities; 

To  thee  as  to  a  shrine,  I  come ! 

Low,  cool  Mist  of  the  North, 

I  seek  thy  inviolable  veil — 

Within  thy  frail  cloistering  walls 

Fold  me  ere  I  fail  utterly. 

A  slag  of  man,  I  come,  contrite! 

Keen,  calm  Wind  of  the  North, 

Blow  out  of  the  hills!    I've  need  of  thee! 

In  thy  long,  cool  tresses  lay  my  fevered 

brow — 
Fevered  of  cities  and  of  sin ! 
One  touch  of  thy  fingers.  Wind   of  the 

North, 
And  I  am  free — 

Free  of  the  purple  sin  of  the  South, 
Free  of  the  slime  of  the  cities; 
Free  of  the  falser  Gods  of  crowds ! 
Stript  of  all  falsity  I  come  surrendering 
To  thee,  deep,  blue  Sky  of  the  North ! 
At  the  fast  ship's  prow.  Star  of  the  North, 
In  old  faith,  in  old  love, 
I  come,  cast  down  to  thee ! 

On  Shipboard 


AFTER  TROUBLOUS  WINDS 

AFTER  the  troublous  winds  have  wear- 
ied and  turned  to  sleep, 

I  lie  on  the  cool  beach-sands,  in  the  sound 
of  the  waves  of  the  deep; 

And  the  waves  of  the  firm  dead-sea,  that 
carry  the  gray  of  the  sky. 

Bear  earnest  of  peace  to  me  though  the 
years  and  the  worlds  go  by. 

The  waves  of  the  wind-reft  bay,  that  re- 
fled:  and  rejed:  as  they  will, 

Unvexed  and  unfaltering  roll  and  the  law 
of  control  fulfill ;  — 

And  this  is  the  life  that  will  be  when  our 
fears  are  folded  away — 

For  the  mind  is  the  wide-swung  sea,  and 
the  sky  of  the  soul  is  gray. 

Little  Traverse  Bay,  1907 


Cj3    Ct3 


Ashes   and  Embers 


WHEN  the  first  floods  had  newly  quit  the 
earthy 
And  annals  of  the  world  lay  in  the  loom^ 
Awaiting  time  and  thu7iders^ — to  consume 

The  desert  hours  a  Nile  hoy  in  his  mirth 

Carved  a  rude  shard  of  clay  to  deck  his  girth. 
And  this  the  paleolith  left  of  the  doom 
Of  centuries^  or  scaj'ab  from  the  tomb 

Of    Pharaoh — treasures    now   of  priceless 
worth. 

So  I  ?nust  wonder^  when  I  shape  my  shrine 
Of  feral  verse — though  no  intrinsic  good. 
Will  it  be  buried  by  the  years  and  then. 
As  legend  of  the  long-departed  wood. 

Be  saved  to  relish  like  some  ancient  wine 
Or  relic  of  old  sunken  Stavoren? 


CJ]     C53 


MEMORIAL 

A  SLEEP  is  on  the  northern  town 

Of  Hearts-beat-slow; 

The  very  steeples  wear  a  frown — 

The  gardener  is  low  ! 

Toll,  bells!   Toll,  bells! 

By  all  the  slave  is  scorned. 

Toll,  bells!   Toll,  bells! 

By  none  will  he  be  mourned. 

Old  time  he  bore  his  country's  flag — 

Forgotten  now. 

A  shroud  will  cover  him,  a  rag; 

A  scar  his  brow. 

Toll,  bells!   Toll,  bells! 

A  soldier  more  has  slept; 

Toll,  bells!   Toll,  bells! 

The  soldier  has  been  wept ! 

He  knew  no  kindly  look  or  word 

Through  laboring  hours; 

He  muttered  curses,  all  unheard, — 

And  planted  flowers! 

Toll,  bells!   Toll,  bells! 

No  wreath  is  on  bis  grave. 

Toll,  bells!   Toll,  bells! 

Who  waits  to  mourn  the  slave  ? 

Toll  for  the  slave !  Toll  for  the  brave 
(His  curse  a  flag! ) 


Continued 

His  gardens  bless  the  child  and  knave ! 

(His  shroud  a  rag! ) 

Toll,  bells!  Toll,  bells! 

What  though  the  slave  is  scorned  ? 

Toll,  bells!  Toll,  bells! 

For  him  who  is  not  mourned ! 

Harbor  Springs,  1908 


Cj}     [t3 


VENICE 

IT  has  been  mine  to  know,  in  younger 
days, 

That  love,  in  fullness,  finds  no  utterance; 

No  mortal  word  can  serve,  much  less  en- 
hance 

A  perfed:  thing.  The  wondrous  Nippon 
vase 

Desponds  my  tongue;  the  while  to  ruder 
clays 

Of   dull  unpromising,  the   Muses  dance 

And  wake  with  hearts  of  wild  exuberance! 

So  Fancy  weaves  on  umber  warp  her 
praise ! 

No  song  of  mine  confirms  that  I  have  seen 
San  Marco's  opal  dome  and  wept  be- 
fore 
The   Campanile's  fall.     I   have   riot 
sung 
Ca  d'Oro's  grace  nor  of  the  light  serene 
That  never  was  on  others'  seas,  Mag- 
gior 
Venezia ! — to  me  thy  bells  have  rung. 

1907 


TO  GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 

THOU  cursed  of  all  the  world  for  want- 
ing God, 
And  blessed  of  God  with  gifts  all  but 

divine ; 
So  might  one  hour  thy  smallest  worth 
be  mine 
I  Id  fill  that  hour  with  praise  of  thee.    No 

rod. 
However  cruel,  would  stay  my  tongue; 
no  sod 
With  all  its  fearsome  coldness  I  'Id  de- 
cline. 
Enough  one  leaf   of   laurels   that   are^ 
thine — 
One  tear  of  those  that  bathe  the  paths  you 
trod. 

So  sure  the  change  of  mortal  hearts  and 

times. 
So  great  the  final  mead  of  stings  you 

bore — 
Who  can  but  envy  you  the  spear?    Thy 

rhymes 
Of  bleeding  heart  are  saved  to  pay  thy 

score; 
But  I  may  bear  my  cross  to  calvary. 
Nor  rise  by  truth  to  immortality. 

(On  the  fly-leaf  of  The  Castaway) 


LOUISIANA 

OUT  of  the  ash  of  Ages 
Damp  with  the  tide  of  Time, 
Over  the  reeking  pages 
Red  with  the  Heathen  Crime — 
Here  hath  the  forest  Fable 
Fought  with  the  corpse  of  Fear, 
Building  a  barracked  gable 
Learned  of  a  Savage  leer. 

Spite  of  the  mountain  and  torrent, 
Huron  and  hunger  and  bear; 
Praying  in  plagues  abhorrent. 
Minding  of  Midasan  blare — 
Jesuit,  knight  and  trader, 
Crozier  and  steel  and  skin, 
Fool-of-the-Fountain  and  raider. 
Founders  of  Faith  and  Sin — 
Chanted  their  Molochite  Aves 
On  through  the  wilds  of  the  Years, 
Laying  their  laws  as  lavas 
Hot  with  the  blood  and  the  tears ! 

In  mounds  of  a  Memory  faded, 
The  Kingdoms  planted  their  feet; 
The  stream  where  the  bittern  waded 
Thronged  of  a  throbbing  fleet. 
Mine  and  Timber  and  Meadow 
Meet  their  debt  to  the  Dead, 


Continued 

And  over  the  shame  and  the  shadow 
The  Sachem  of  Peace  is  led ! 

Hewer  and  digger  and  tinker. 
Hammer  and  hoe  and  shear; 
Loaner  and  lover  and  thinker. 
Poet  and  painter  and  seer — 
Shoveled  the  sand  to  building, 
Tethered  the  river  to  power. 
Pounded  the  rock  to  gilding — 
And  looked  on  Temple  and  Tower! 

St.  Louis,  1904  * 


Ct3     [t3 


GAT  ES    OF    BRASS 

A  SINGLE  taper,  flaming  dim  and  low, 
Played  fitfully  on  relic  altar-gold; 
Thru  windows  wrought  with  miracles 
of  old 

Fell  faint  the  saffron  of  the  afterglow. 

Before  the  penance-bench  Sir  Hardistan, 
Scarce  more  than  youth,  of  sturdy  limb 

and  fair, 
Knelt  down  as  under  longer  years'  de- 
spair 
That  marked  his  brow  with  age  ere  age 
began. 

Within  the  shadow  stooped  the  solemn 
priest, 
In  patience  with  the  sorrows  of   the 

years — 
His  cup  of  life  o'eriilled  of  others'  tears. 
Had  spilled  his  tragedy  as  theirs  increased. 

**Sir  Knight,  I  keep  the  refuge  of   the 
poor — 
Here  knees  of  plaintive  misery  are  bent 
When  worldly  wares  and  light  of  life 
are  spent. 
Thou'rt  not  of  these,  but  yet  in  strength 
secure." 


Continued 

* 'Father,  I  wander  thru  the  endless  night. 
And  the  paie  moon  to  me  appears  but 

rare. 
I  seek,  the  last,  thy  famed  candle-flare 
To  light  my  steps  and  stumbling  steed 
aright." 

"What  meanest  thou,  Sir  Knight? — Hast 
naught  of  home?" 
*'Aye,  Father,  home — such  home  as  all 

men  seek. 
And  wife  and  child,  and  stables  of  the 
sheik. 
And  gold  to  grace  a  triumphry  of  Rome." 

"Grieve  not.  Sir  Knight,  if  erst  thy  joust- 
ing failed." 
"No  conflid:  but  a  conquest,  holy  one; 
,  The  bravest  have  engaged  me  and  are 
done 
With    tournaments,    whilst  I  am  victor 
hailed." 

"Find' St  thou  no  weal  in  neighbor,  friend 
or  kin?" 
"Thy  pardon,    sire — thou  speak' st   in 

language  worn. 
Can  mortal  fellowship  be  bred  of  scorn  ? 


Continued 

The  wolf  am  I;   the  whimpering  folds 
are  men." 

'*Mayhap  thy  alms  are  sown  to  thankless 
soil." 
''Aim?  Alms?  Wouldst  fling  thy  beads 

to  craven  oaves? 
My  gift  is  steady  steel,  outlasting  loaves ! 
But  haste !  — the  serpent  Night  doth  loose 
her  coil!" 

* 'Haste  romps,  Sir  Knight,  without  the 
cloister  gates — 
With  such  as  thou  on  worldly  roads  it 

runs, 
In  vain  pursuit  of  far  retreating  suns! 
My  humble  lamp  will  serve  but  him  who 
waits. 

"The  Sangreal  lay  not  the  wanton's  way ! 
God's  love  for  love;    His   mercy  for 

thine  own! 
Turn  back  whence  thou  hast  come — 
unarmed,  alone! 
Beyond  the  east  awaits  the  dawn  of  day ! " 

1907 


THE    ODALISK 

OFTTIMES  in  these  our  passion-resting 

hours, 
When  the  Ught-mist  of  early  twihght 
Veils  the  spectral  mosque-tips, 
And  all  the  silver  bells  in  still  suspense 
Await  the  towered  muezzin's  call 
To  prayer — the  soft  dew-gathering  time 
When  rose-perfumes  from  our  seraglio 

garden 
Float  low  and  deep  upon  my  idle  sense — 
Then  have  I  dreamed  a  dream. 
Though  it  be  all  a  fancy-fabric. 
Makes  for  peace  to  you  and  me,  Fatima. 

I  have  dreamed  of  other  times  and  lands. 
Of  far-called  women  freely  born — 
Free  to  choose  and  free  of  any  master 
And  of  Moslem  power — all  save  Christian 

creeds. 
In  these,  my  reveries,  the  winds 
From  over  seas  will  bear  the  sobs 
Of  childless  wives,  and  then  the  cries 
Of  many  children  left  of  mothers 
Weeping  for  the  fathers  strange ! 
I  hear  of  marriage-beds  of  brides  unloved 
And  maidens  solitary  all  their  days 
In  pining  for  some  heart  they  move  not; 
And  it  has  come  to  me — ah,  truly  false — 
That  those  most  virtuous  are  most  bereft, 


Continued 

Without  abode  or  any  resting  place 
Or  sympathy's  caress  to  bless  their  sleep — 
And  this  because  of  goochiess  and  the  hope 
Of  some  out-lying,  loveless   Paradise  to 

come! 
So,  I  am  told  that  in  that  country  ruled 
Without  a  king,  the  waj^s  of  freedom 
Are  not  free,  and  woman's  liberty 
Is  woman's  reigning  woe. 
Her  fickle  fury  toys  unsavingly. 
And,  being  free,  men  turn  unscathed 
Away,  wear>^  of  play,  to  be  the  masters 
Men  can  be !   And  woman — 
Worn  of  trifling,  stale  of  beauty — lies 
Remembered  in  her  obloquy,  or,  worse, 

forgot!  — 
A  slave  abjed:  to  self-invented  custom! 

And  you  and  I,  Fatima — we  would  not, 
From  our  sweet  certainty  and   guardian 

walls. 
Go  in  those  ways  of  freedom-woe 
An  hour's  part — but  we  should  rend 
Our  matted  hair,  to  be  forgiven  our  dal- 
liance, 
And  would  turn  our  troubled  faces  back 
To  him,  the  Radiant  One,  our  master! 

190b 


MY  TAPER'S  RECOMPENSE 

MY  candle  burned  for  long  to  those  fair 
days 
When  chivalry  and  modest  worth  held 

true 
The  scale  of  life;    and  then  would  I 
pursue 
In  fancy  backward  up  those  older  ways, 
To  peace!   The  modern  fabric  wants  the 
grays 
And  love-care  that  our  mother's  sam- 
pler knew; 
The  world  takes  on  a  false,   fantastic 
hue. 
And  hearts  and  homes  are  wrought  of 
sordid  clays. 

But  here  are  truth  and  sweetness  of  the  old 
Set  with  the  art  and  splendor  of  the  new, 
Like  strands  of  silver  thread  among  the 
gold; 
That    silence-charm,  the    heritage   of 
few, 
Frail  beauty  and  the  purity  of  tears — 
All  saved  in  thee  to  pay  my  waiting  years ! 

"'The  Oaks,"  PONTIAC,  1908 


CLOISTER     BEADS 

I  BESEECH  Thee,  Mother  of  Christ,  to 
know  Thy  will : 

Have  I  not  loved  Thee  and  obeyed,  and 
kept  the  vigil, 

And  denied  my  flesh  thus  long,  so  long! 

Have  I  not  thought  to  save  my  soul  spot- 
less of  the  world? — 

My  tear-burned  eyes  are  weary  looking 
up  to  Thee. 

Thou    hast  been  forgotten  never,  yet — 

and  yet — 
(Forgive   me,  Mother!)   I  am  lonely — 

lonely  as  the  grave. 
Passing  joys,  like  unto   Heaven,  I  have 

found 
In  blossoms  of  the  Spring  and  sunlight  on 

the  snow  and  soothing  rain — 
All  these,  and  prayer  has  been  a  moment's 

solace. 

Mother  Merciful,  forgive  if  I  offend — 

But  why  am  I  unhappy  always  ?  Am  I 
tried  and  wanting, 

While  those  others  who  have  knelt  to 
their  own  beings. 

Laugh  so  joyously  and  are  content? 

They  know  Thee  not,  and  yet,  not  know- 
ing, have  they  pleased  Thee? 


Continued 

Dost  Thou  truly  dwell  in  Heaven  apart— 

or  art  Thou  Love? 
And  is  the  voice  of  mortal  love  Thy  voice  ? 
Strange  earth-songs  call  me,  urgent  as  the 

will  to  live, 
And  I  forget.     Then  I  remember  Thee. 
But  as  I  turn  from  him  my  heart  is  rent ! 

Mother  of  Christ,  hast  Thou  not  loved  ? 

Hast  Thou  not  known  the  peace  of  moth- 
erhood ? 

And  canst  Thou'not  f orgiveThy  novices ? 

At  night  and  when  the  stars  go  out  at  dawn, 

At  noon  and  every  hour  I  crave  what  is 
forbid — 

And,  weeping,  I  am  frail  and  have  not 

prospered ! 
Must  I  fail  and  die — hungering  as  some 

hidden  flower? 
Thou  art  so  far — so  far  from  me — and  he 

is  near. 
If  I  could  know  that  Thou  hast  sent  him ! 
Hast  Thou  ?  Hast  Thou  ?  Mother  of  God^ 

/  kve  him  so  I 

1908 


RETRIBUTION    (Jungle  Law) 

IN  a  far-gone  day  of  the  feral  Dawn, 
Where  the  jungle  code  began, 
A  lion  lived  with  a  boast  of  brawn 
And  the  growl  of  a  brute-heart  clan. 

He  took  for  his  mate  a  tiger-girl 
For  her  beautiful  coat  and  eyes; 
She  left  her  dream  in  a  passion-whirl. 
And  cried  as  a  tiger  cries  — 

For  the  jungle  law  was  Feed  and  own. 

And  Fight  and  the  fawn  is  yours  I 

And  the  doe  and  the   tiger-mate  could 

moan 
In  vain  for  the  life  that  lures. 

And  the  jungle  filled  with  the  mongrel- 
breed, — 

For  the  mother-lust  must  live; 

And  the  young  ones  grew  by  the  lion's 
greed 

That  took  where  it  would  not  give/ 

Her  heart  went  out  to  a  bengal's  rune. 
And  the  stars  stood  by  in  her  cause; 
She  sang  at  night  to  the  desert  moon 
And  sighed  for  the  love-made  laws. 


Continued 

But  the  jungle  law  and  the  mongrel-breed 
Were  strong  in  the  jungle  land; 
A  God  was  not  in  the  lion's  creed — 
And  two  bloods  stained  the  sand ! 

The   brute-king  roared  of  the  deed  he'd 

done. 
And  the  mongrel  whelps  bowed  low; 
A  tiger-mate  and  a  chosen  one 
Lay  stark  in  the  Bombay  glow ! 

Detroit,  1909 


Cj3    Cj3 


THY  LOVE  THE  PILOT  BE 

ROUGH  is  the  way  of  the  sea, 
And  tossed  are  the  ships  amain — 
Swayed  to  the  wind  and  the  lea 
And  back  to  the  course  again. 

Shivered  the  hulk  with  the  weight 
Of  the  waves  that  charge  the  beam ; 
Awash  are  the  decks  with  hate 
That  licks  for  the  open  seam. 

The  binnacle  dips  to  the  locks 
Of  the  surf,  from  side  to  side ; 
And  over  the  sprit  the  rocks 
And  the  siren  of  sands  deride. 

The  hour  the  seaman  sleeps 
The  lorelei  songs  allure; 
The  wife  of  a  sailor  weeps 
And  winds  mock  over  the  moor. 


Our  Life  is  the  name  of  the  sea, 
And  the  craft  is  a  mortal  man; 
The  waves  are  Inconstancy, 
And  the  rocks — to  evade,  who  can  1 

So  Truth  be  the  oaken  keel. 
And  Faith  an  unfaltering  sail; 
My  honor  the  bulkhead  steel. 
Thy  Mercy  the  yielding  mail — 


Continued 

And  mine  is  the  compass  true — 
A  heart  that  holds  to  a  star 
Which  shines  in  the  hope  of  you 
And  the  buoy  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Fear  not  if  the  mind  of  me 

In  the  wrack  of  the  world  be  tried; 

Thy  Love  may  the  pilot  be — 

My  Soul  comes  home  with  the  tide ! 

To  V.  L.,  1909 


Cj3     CJ3 


THE  ABSENT  HEART  OF  ME 

THE  low  sun  paints  the  willow  rows, 
Their  shadows  lengthening  eastward  fall 
A  purple  tracery  on  the  snows; 
And  Spring  is  here — but  that  is  all ! 

A  silence  broods  upon  the  farm — 
Sweet,  sweet  as  some  forgotten  song 
After  the  battle's  mad  alarm: 
Such  peace! — and  yet  I  long  and  long! 

Here  dwell  the  memories  of  the  past, 
A  tribe  as  true  as  God  has  made, 
And  friends  that  yield  their  honor  last;  — 
And  yet  my  breast  must  bear  a  blade ! 

This  house  keeps  nature's  wondrous  plan. 
Old  books  and  bronze  and  native  art — 
All  things  to  move  the  soul  of  man; 
But  voiceless  to  a  stricken  heart ! 

Ah,  wealth  and  crafts  of  men,  how  frail,. 
And  empty  of  all  constancy ! 
Yea,  even  grace  of  God  must  fail!  — 
You  are  the  absent  heart  of  me! 

The  Willows,  1909 


MY  HEART  IS  HOME 

AND  now  mad  Winter  comes  again, 
The  wild  winds  sweep  the  stubble-fields; 
Against  the  gray  the  willows  strain. 
Blow,  blizzard,  blow !  My  heart  is  healed ! 

The  gnomes  in  fiendish  carnival 
Turn  chaos  loose  upon  the  farm; 
The  porches  creak,  the  dead  limbs  fall. 
It  snows — but  Love  is  safe  from  harm ! 

The  wolves  of  winter  charge  the  doors. 
Our  shutters  shake  like  bones  of  Death ; 
The  friends  heap  wood,  the  back-log  roars. 
And  old  regrets — no  more.  Sweet  Breath ! 

The  urn  against  the  chimney  sings. 
Old  books  unlock  their  treasuries; 
The  wind  persuades  the  'cello  strings 
To  moan — In  souls  are  melodies! 

As  Order  makes  the  charm  of  home. 
Its  blessing  now  is  sweet  Content ; 
Its  glory — R.est  thou^  all  who  roam^ 
And  Love,  our  love,  its  sacrament ! 

The  Willows,  1909 


THE  POET'S  SHIFT 

I  SAW  them  there  behind  the  glass — 
Red  rose,  sweet-pea  and  violet, 

Lily  and  pink  and  mignonette — 
Persuading  me ;  but  I  must  pass. 

What  would  she  give  if  she  could  know 
It  hurt  my  heart  to  pass  them  so? — 

When  she  loves  rose  and  mignonette 
And  dotes  upon  the  violet! 

What  would  I  give  if  these  could  grow 
Along  the  wayside  as  I  pass! — 

And  not  behind  a  window-glass 
For  profit's  sake  or  idle  show! 

But  summer  comes  and  some  day  yet 
We'll  gather  worlds  of  mignonette. 

Where  flowers  are  free  and  summers  long! 
Till  then  my  love  must  live  in  song! 

Detroit,  1909 


^     ^ 


UNTO    THE   LEAST 

THE  melancholy  nights  and  days  of  pain. 
Travail  of  poverty  and  solitude, 
The  innocent  contempt  from  all   the 
rude — 
Whom  I  love  well — must  long  ago  have 

slain 
My  stubborn  faith ;  but  for  persistent  stain 
That  saved  my  need  of  prayer's  deep 

interlude. 
'Tis  well  the  faults  that  utterly  exclude 
The  world  of  men,  God's  ministry  retain ! 

A  thousand  crises  in  my  years  have  bade 
Me  take  with  falser  gods  the  luresome 
meed 
Of  praise  and  friends   and   Plenty's 
fallow  ease; 
But  futile  penitence  hath  left  me  sad 
With  sorrows  that  no  laughing  fellows 
heed  ; 
And,  lone,  I  hear  the  message  of  the 
seas! 

1908 


C?3     C?3 


THE    POET    VAGRANT 

WERE  I  to  die  this  hour  or  some  near 

day — 
Be  stricken  quick  upon  the  way  I've  trod, 
Say  not  ''  'Tis  sad  the  youth  has  passed 

away, 
So  reft  of  fortune  and  so  far  from  God." 

Say  not  in  pity  that  I  might  have  had 
The  gift  and  favor  of  the  rich  and  great — 
But  that  mischosen  insolence  forbade 
My  fellows'  warning  of  a  hapless  fate. 

Grieve  not  that  I  have  spent  my  years  in 

dream, 
And  drifted  listless  as  the  vagrant  brook — 
Have  sought  me  substance  in  the  things 

that  seem. 
And  left  to  earth  the  semblance  of  a  book. 

What  though  I  have  not  where  to  lay 

my  head. 
Nor   marble   weight   upon    my    body's 

grave; — 
Of  this  I  make  no  moan  when  I  am  dead 
And  you  possess  the  worth  I  failed  to 

save. 

So  be  it  I  am  soon  forgot  of  men 

And  laid  in  alien  soil  by  stranger  hands; — 


Continued 

The  pines  above  my  head  will  mourn  me 

then, 
And  waves  intone  my   requiem  on  the 

sands. 

Say,  rather,  this:  "He  chose  to  make  his 

friends 
In  wood  and  field,  with  bird  and  flower 

and  tree; 
Began  his  labor  where  our  labor   ends. 
And  saved — the  faith  in  immortality." 

Good  Hart,  1908 


^     Ct3 


THE   LARGER   DREAM 

WHEN  winds  are  rioting  upon  the  drift- 
ed hills. 

And  the  keen  stars  defy  the  frosts  of  win- 
ter; 

Weary  with  the  war  of  men  and  paltry 
wage, 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep.  In  that  uncon- 
sciousness 

I  know  a  peace  surpassing  words. 

Age  and  the  weight  of  years  are  not  with 
me. 

Nor  yet  are  angels  with  monotony  of 
harps. 

Nor  vanity  of  jewels  and  plentitude  of 
mortal  crafts; 

But  youth  is  everywhere !  and  Spring  and 
happy  skies, 

And  waters  dancing  in  the  potent  sun ! 

Cities  do  I  see,  but  far  away  and  uninhab- 
ited, and  wraith 

As  gossamer — domes  of  inobtrusive  hue. 

And  minarets  of  phantom  mosques 

As  fleeting  as  the  forms  of  miracle ! 

Clad  scantily  in  Attic  boy's  attire. 

And  lithe  of  limb  and  crowned  of  myrtle 

wreaths — 
I  gather  blossoms  from  the  cherry  trees 

of  far  Japan 


Continued 

And  fling  them   wanton  to   the   Blessed 

Damosel! 
I  walk  with  Virgil  in  the  vales  of  Italy 
And  follow  Jaques   through  the  Arden 

forest 
To  the  cool  springs,  and  the  frail  pipes 
That  Pan  is  plucking  for  his  instruments. 

In  light  of  noon  and  perfume  of  laburnum 
Wondrous  birds  of  plumage  swing  with 

gladness 
On  primeval  boughs.  And  as  they  live,  so 

also  I! 
No  labor  have  I  dreamed  that  is  not  joy- 
ous, 
And  no  pain  appears  to  pall  the  laughter 
Of  the  land  of  Sleep.     The  very  shadows 
Are  a  benedidiion,  filled  with  color's  fer- 
vency. 
The  day  encompasses  eternity!    The  uni- 
verse 
Of  stars  and  spheres  incomparable 
Are  toys  of  hand !  I  toss  Capella  carelessly 
And  dance  with  Virgo  at  the  Dragon's 

mouth ; 
Astride  Camelopard  we  scatter  flowers 
Upon  the  Milky-way  and  fill  the  Dippers 
At  Aquarius'  fountain ! 
No  heat  is  vexing  and  no  cold  avails 


Continued 

To  still  the  heart's  persistency  of  song, 
Or  stay  the  ardor  of  the  love  outlasting 
time ! 

Then  I  must  wake  again  upon  the  world 
To  find  the  unrest  of  the  dreams  of  kings! 
And  I  am  sad — and  will  the    Night  to 

come 
That  knows  no  end !     .     .     .     .       But, 
Here  are  homely  tasks  for  every  hour. 
And  there — my  gray-gowned  books 
That  wove  the  fancies!   So  my  creed  is 

born — 
And  I  am  comforted  as  with  a  prayer:  — 
The  After-world  is  builded  large 
Of  little  symbols  gathered  here  ! 
And  I  could  gladly  live  on  earth — 
In  child-like  wisdom — yet  to  know  more 

wonders ; 
And  in  patient  service — thus  to  grow 
More  weary  for  the  Larger  Dreat?i! 


THE    END 


Four  titles  indexed  were  juvenile  curiosities,  and  the 
book  is  deemed  improved  by  their  omission  from 
the  pages.  The  Author. 


^^S  BOOK  IS  D 


r7  KA 


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325843 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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